She Had Never Been One To Show Emotion
by AdlockedMrsCumberbatch
Summary: Irene Adler is a master of the poker face, not letting anyone see past her dominatrix mask, but what was she really thinking during her game with the great Sherlock Holmes? Adlock one-shot, fills in the gaps in 'A Scandal In Belgravia' canon with Irene's feelings towards the situation (but not 1st person), and recounts her journey to accepting her sentiment. M rated to be safe.


***Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or it's characters. Any and all rights belong to the BBC***

She had never been one to show emotion.

Emotion was weak. Emotion fed off your common sense and ate away all your reasoning; it symbolised attachment, dependence, and in her line of work, neither of those could be felt. If one tries hard enough, emotions can be supressed, their heart locked up inside the confines of a prison built from reason and morals, chained until it simply ceases to exist. She had done that long ago.

She hadn't _felt _in so long, and she hadn't _loved _in even longer, and she did not miss it. She had cut off all family ties when she was no more than a teenager, and she had never had a true romantic relationship that needed to be broken off. Of course she had had flings and God only knew how many people had been in her bed only that year. Sure, she wasn't celibate, but how could she be? She was The Woman!

To feel was to be weakened, and to be weakened made life dangerous when so many people wanted you dead. A world in which only logic and reasoning mattered was a clearer one and she could not have her thoughts clouded by _sentiment_- her life depended on her detachment from emotion. In a game where her life was at stake she could not lose, and sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side.

A clever man told her that.

A clever man who had been right. Ironic then that it was he who had caused the problem.

Up until she met _him _she had never missed sentiment. She was a lone hunter simply forging her own path through a world inhabited by pack animals. And God had it been fun.

While it lasted.

But suddenly in he walked, The Consulting Detective playing the mugged vicar. The man with the high cheekbones and the ragged dark curls and the façade of utter indifference. She liked the ones who played hard to get, and when she stood completely naked in front of him she wanted nothing more than to rip that façade down. She knew he was only there for the photos but that wasn't about to stop her having some fun.

She did enjoy their little game. Constantly bettering each other, always wanting the last laugh. She knew from the moment he lay eyes on her that she had certainly made an impression but he wasn't about to show it and that thought filled her with glee; it was time to play. She had known he was clever, but it surprised her a tiny bit that they were so evenly matched. She was truly flattered when he cracked the safe, having observed her measurements correctly, and she had to admit they made a good team when they dealt with the CIA agents. When she said brainy was the new sexy, she wasn't joking- in another life, she would have had him in her bed in a heartbeat. He was a challenge and certainly the most fun she'd had in ages.

That just made it all the more disappointing that he had been so easy to beat in the end. Drugging him had been the oldest trick in the book, and yet the look of utter shock on his face had been priceless. He had been like putty in her hands, so easy to manipulate for someone who, like her, prided themselves on not being able to feel those feelings which demanded to be felt. She knew she had made an impression from the start but was he really so naïve to the game she was playing? She had never had any doubt that she would be victorious but she hadn't anticipated that he would play like such a goddamned _amateur. _

But another thing she hadn't anticipated was how much of an impression _he _had made on _her. _When she had safely evaded the police and was hidden away in one of her bolt holes, protection and reputation both intact, she had found his phone in the pocket of his coat (which she still wore.) She hadn't been able to resist documenting her number to it, and his to hers, nor had she resisted the temptation of playing one last round of the game and personalising her text alert. At the time, it wasn't intended to be suggestive, just a bit of fun, but later when she closed her eyes to sleep and was met- rather unexpectedly- by his ice-blue eyes, the seed was sown. Perhaps she wasn't done with The Consulting Detective yet, and besides, she needed to return his coat.

221B Baker Street was quiet as she slipped through the bathroom window in the dead of night. Both he and Dr Watson were asleep, and after hanging his coat on the door she hadn't been able to resist watching him. The sheets were rumpled and his beautifully dark hair too, sticking out at angles. She suspected his genius brain never stopped working, not even when he slept, and she had no doubt that he was dreaming, and dreaming of her. Something inside her smiled at the thought, and she scorned at it, surprised, but still she was secretly pleased that she had indeed pulled down his façade. She only wondered why her stomach twisted so when she thought of it.

She had been about to leave when he had stirred, and soon those eyes whose memory had lead her there were open, bloodshot and bleared with sleep. If she hadn't known better she would have said they had made her pulse rate boost slightly, but how could that be so when she hadn't a heart to give a pulse? She shook off the thought and her poker face returned as quickly as it had left.

"Hush now…" she crooned as he went to raise his head, still disorientated by the drug. "It's okay… I'm only returning your coat." She touched his cheek softly and watched the ice-blue orbs disappear behind their lids as sleep once more overcame him. Even so she knew she didn't have long to make an exit, so out of the bathroom window she swept, as softly and silently as a ghost. When he eventually awoke, she was long gone, but of course she left her calling card by way of an erotic moan which drifted from his coat pocket, signalling that the game was over and she had won.

But even winning didn't completely satisfy her. That night as she tossed and turned in her bed she still couldn't rid her mind of those eyes, and that perplexed her. She had thought the first time that it had been her mind telling her that the game wasn't over, but the game was finished now and yet here were those eyes, making her non-existent heart beat faster. Surely she was not experiencing some kind of physical attraction to this man? Brainy was indeed the new sexy to her, and The Consulting Detective was handsome in both mind and matter, but she was emotionless, heartless. How could it be that he was causing her to do what she hadn't done in oh, so long, how could he be causing her to _feel? _ Surely those eyes weren't haunting her because of _sentiment? _

Yet when she awoke the next morning they burned even clearer in her mind, beseeching her, pleading with her, and eventually she could resist it no longer- she had to begin the game again. It was a simple text that she sent, only wishing him a good morning, but it would be the first of many texts to him.

She wasn't sure why, but each time after pressing send, the eyes in her mind seemed to smile at her somewhat approvingly. She dismissed the notion- was she really so crazed by this new found sentiment that she was trying to please imaginary eyes?

Yes, _sentiment. _

She still tried to supress it with all her might but she found that The Consulting Detective had well and truly rattled the chains around her heart, and that scared her, though she'd never admit it. It seemed he had made more of an impression on her than she had first thought, and though she still pretended she was cold, he had begun to warm her ever so slightly. She wouldn't dare admit it even to herself, but he had hurt her by never replying to her flirtatious texts. All she wanted was to play, and it irritated her that she had nobody to play _with._

When the time came for her to 'die', there was only one person she could give it to. She knew only he would understand the true meaning behind her Christmas gift to him- the camera phone she surrendered and with it her protection. She knew he would make the connection.

She thought she could cope with the boredom of being 'dead' on her own, but when she found she couldn't, she needed somewhere to go. Thus, she arranged her meeting with Dr Watson. She knew she had made an impression on The Consulting Detective and was not surprised (but admittedly a little joyous) to hear that he seemed to be heartbroken by her supposed loss, composing sad music and generally sulking. She may be feeling something for him but hearing how much he simply _pined _for her meant she was still in control.

She always planned on texting him to assure him that she was alive, but it was certainly touching to see Dr Watson attempt to persuade her first. She found comfort in knowing that he at least assumed her to be simply playing with nothing to lose. It was good to know that nobody but her had twigged that she was now regrettably betting with her heart. After all, if she kept her sentiment in the dark, how could anybody use it against her? So long as the world thought she was still a lone ranger she was safe. But even so she wanted the safety-net of her protection back. So the text was sent.

But another thing she failed to anticipate was the sound that she heard as a result. Despite her intelligence, she would never have guessed that he would follow Dr Watson here, and as fleeing footsteps followed the tell-tale moan it took all she had to prevent her mask from slipping. It seemed not only had The Consulting Detective rattled the chains binding her heart but her conscience too, and she felt… was it guilt at seeing him hurt?

Once again she tried to pretend. She told herself over and over _it's just a game, only a game... _but still she couldn't bear the disapproving glare that the eyes gave her now. So she took the game to him. Slipping into his bed at 221B while he was away, she tried to ignore how her heart positively leapt at the way his scent wafted from his sheets, how she was lying were he lay. When he returned to find her, she pretended to sleep, her mind reeling, replaying countless scenes in which he would crawl into bed beside her and they would proceed to engage in the only sex she would ever have which actually _meant _anything to her. She scolded herself internally for allowing her foolish love-struck mind to come up with such an idea, then showered the taboo thoughts from her body and wrapped herself in his dressing gown- the only thing of his she would ever allow herself to be wrapped in, a substitute for the body she knew she could never have. Her sentiment could weaken her in her head but her actions could never be allowed to betray her.

Around him, though it made her die inside, she would always reassume the aloof, flirtatious air that she had once found so natural yet now found so alien. She strove to challenge him just so she could regain some control, searching out the coded email for him to use. She had the devilish idea that if she got him to decode it she could send it to his alter ego, The Consultant Criminal, and use it against him. She would never ever let on but he had hurt her- she knew he wanted her but he just wouldn't swallow his pride. After all the only thing admitting _his _sentiment would harm was his reputation- she had her life at stake.

So out of spite, she began the game again. She swallowed her emotions down and manipulated him coldly and cruelly. She could see it in him that her praises pleased him no end, and when she asked him to 'impress a girl' and planted that kiss on his cheek, she knew he would do anything for her. And he did, decoding the email which had stumped so many in a mere eight seconds. It was empowering and she savoured the confirmation that she was indeed in total control of this man. Unfortunately it just so happened that he was in control of her too, but while he was in the dark that did not matter, and so in a heartbeat the damning text was sent.

It was done.

Only later, when he sat picking the strings of his violin and she sat stealing glances at his beautiful calculating face did she feel any kind of regret. Once again she was wrapped in his dressing gown and was inhaling his intoxicating sent, and that set her mind racing with all sorts of scenes of the two of them ablaze with passion.

"Have you ever had anyone?" she blurted suddenly, a ghost of a blush seeping into her cheeks as she realised what she had said. He just looked at her, confused. She took a few moments to regain her composure, fixed her dominatrix mask and set about covering herself. "And when I say had, I'm being indelicate,"

He still just looked at her as if she was speaking gibberish. "I don't understand."

"I'll be delicate then," she all but whispered.

And suddenly, she just couldn't help herself any longer. Being careful to make it look like she was only _pretending_ to flirt, she threw herself forward and took his hands. Her heart relished his touch and she tried not to let the fire inside her blur her vision. Their faces were nearly touching and it was all she could do not to kiss him. It frustrated her that he stayed so calm in all of this when she knew he was mad for her. He was mad for her wasn't he? A flicker of doubt coursed through her mind so she decided to move things along. "Let's have dinner." She quipped, resuming their old running joke.

"I'm not hungry," he answered.

"Good," she murmured, unperturbed. "Let's have dinner."

Her breath caught in her throat as ever so gently, his fingers began to trace circles on her palms, slowly working up to her wrists and holding them firmly.

"Why would I have dinner if I wasn't hungry?" he whispered, slowly and with an air of preoccupation. He continued to trace his fingers along her wrists. She felt dizzy; this was it. She mentally breathed in and readied herself, asking exactly what she wanted to ask- how was he to know she was double-bluffing?

"If this was the end of the world, if this was the very last night… would you have dinner with me?"

Their faces were even closer now. It would not take much for her to simply lean in and place her lips to his-

Mrs Hudson entered and the moment was lost.

She replayed that moment- their most intimate yet- with a combined sense of happiness and irritation as she caught a taxi to Heathrow. They had been oh so close.

The Consulting Detective had left about half an hour ago, muttering to himself about his 'Coventry Conundrum' and as far as he knew leaving her to sleep. If only.

She boarded flight 007 with a heavy heart, knowing she was going to hurt him but having no choice. It was what she had to do to survive. Still, that didn't make it any easier to betray the one she… loved.

Yes, she did love him… it was crazy, two people devoid of sentiment causing each to pine for the other, but yet here they were. In love but also in hate.

As she boarded the jumbo jet, she didn't even pay heed to the dead bodies in every seat. She only had eyes for The Iceman. And of course his little brother, but they couldn't know that. She walked straight past him without looking at his stricken face- she was already breaking and it would have broken her. She thought she would be happy with the outcome- it was what she had wanted after all, he was shamefaced and she had The Iceman right where she wanted him, her protection imminent, but it still hurt to do it: to _betray _him like that. Still, she had got what she wanted.

Or so she thought.

There was one more thing that The Woman hadn't anticipated: exactly how much her mask had slipped. She had thought she was safe, she had thought the world was still oblivious, that she was the only one who knew how much she had begun to care.

She wasn't of course.

He knew. Of course he knew.

She could see it in his eyes as soon as he began to talk of sentiment. Of course she played dumb at first, pretended the joke was still on him, that she was playing the game.

Screw the game.

With The Iceman as a witness, he tore her walls down.

"Why?" was all she could ask, and his hands were at her wrists again in a flash. She trembled as he leaned in and whispered in her ear, making her heart rate sky-rocket. She didn't see the smile that played across his lips at that. "Because I took your pulse,"

She froze, realising exactly what was going on. What the obsession with her wrists was.

"Elevated," he smiled cruelly. "Your pupils dilated."

And she could do nothing but stand rooted to the spot and listen as he deduced, speaking of the chemistry of love and its disadvantages. Like she needed to be reminded.

"When we first met, you told me disguise was always a self-portrait, how very true of you, the combination to your safe your measurements, but this is much more intimate, this is your heart and you should never let it rule your head."

Just to add insult to injury, he pulled out the camera phone and began to type in the password with almost angry punches. The password she had made as a joke to satisfy her love-struck heart; the password which would ultimately be her downfall.

Numbed to the bone, she realised that it had never been about her. It was only about the photos. She thought she was in control, she thought she had been playing the game, and all the while he had been too. She had been so blind not to see it, but that was the dangerous disadvantage of love: it was blind.

"I was just playing the game," she whispered automatically, but with a defeated tone in her voice: who was she kidding?

"I know," he said emotionlessly. "And this is just losing."

That night as she fled with hatred in those eyes and tears pouring from her own, The Woman vowed she would never play the game again as long a she lived. And if the Iceman had his way that wouldn't be very long.

She was right.

Only a matter of weeks later, kneeling on the cold ground in Karachi, with her chained heart broken and those eyes staring pitifully at her when she closed her lids, her thoughts once again turned to him as she tapped out that last text. She knew he hated her, she knew it would achieve nothing but still if she were to die here, she wanted her dying thoughts to be of him.

She pressed send, closed her eyes and waited for the end, looking into those ice-blue orbs one last time.

Then there was the moan.

So recognisable and so gut-wrenchingly familiar, she couldn't bear to let herself believe it till she heard his voice, soft and deep and sweet in her ear: "When I say run, run."

And run they did, hand in hand and not stopping for anything. Not until they reached the port did she let herself really believe he had come for her.

She had never been one to show emotion. Emotion was weak. Emotion fed off your common sense and ate away all your reasoning.

But that night she showed it in bucket loads. At first she laughed. Then she cried. Then she let herself succumb.

That night, collapsed on top of him in a dingy cabin on a passenger ferry to anywhere, those eyes smiled at her both in mind and in sight.

That night, Irene Adler let Sherlock Holmes unlock the chains around her Sherlocked heart.

**A/N: Thanks for reading, brownie points to anyone who picked up on the accidental 'The Fault In Our Stars' reference! Reviews would be much appreciated, good or bad, but this is my first ever fic so please bear that in mind! ~AdlockedMrsCumberbatch**


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